


A Shadow's Test

by PermianExtinction



Series: Tropoverse Canon [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Aftermath - Chuck Wendig
Genre: (none of this is extreme), Character Study, Emotional Abuse of a Minor, Gen, mentions of body horror, mentions of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 04:31:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16151648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PermianExtinction/pseuds/PermianExtinction
Summary: The Imperialis, twenty-five years ago. Palpatine gives another harrowing lesson to a teenaged Galli by showing off the galaxy's most dreadful poison and asking him to guess what its effect could be.





	A Shadow's Test

**Author's Note:**

> The black liquid comes from @unspeakablehorror’s highly entertaining Palpatine redemption fic [ Heart of Shadow ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10944309?view_full_work=true). Because it has the power to force people to, well, be less nasty, and because the fic is set when Palps is still just an apprentice, I wondered about Palpatine being able to resist the effects at the height of his Sithly power, right around RotS era, when he’s absolutely basking in his own evil.

“Before you,” the old man rasps, gnarled fingers splayed and fluttering around the small golden goblet like an illusionist showing off an item he is about to magic out of existence, “is the most dreadful, dangerous concoction. Quite possibly the most terrifying ever created. I want you to _guess_ its effect, dear boy. I want your imagination to run wild with possibilities.”

Those yellow eyes curdle Galli’s blood. Tightening his grip on the armrests of the chair, he does as he’s asked and imagines the worst. It should be easy. All he has to do is imagine what would happen if he fails this test.

It can’t be death, too simple, so it could be something painful. It might melt the organs slowly. Worse than that — it might be full of parasites that would grow in your gut and then start burrowing through your body, hollowing you out and keeping you alive, until you are a mass of holes and creepy-crawlies scuttling in and out of them. When he first learned of death, Galli was so little he didn’t understand that bodies felt nothing, and for years he hated the mice that he feared might start nibbling on his body if he slept too soundly.

But it isn’t imaginative enough. A child’s nightmares. He is no child. He is a man. Galli lifts his chin and forces himself to stare into the Emperor’s reptilian gaze.

He is afraid of the man — so afraid, in fact, that it brings a paralyzing fog. Calm acceptance starts to roll in. And then a strange compulsion to lunge forward and swallow the contents of the cup. Take on the worst, and prove that he is brave. Because, and this is a transcendently blasphemous thought, between Palpatine and the cup, Galli is to believe that the _cup_ is the more dreadful. And it sits there so harmlessly. Easily fitting in his hand.

No — imagine, whatever is in the cup, is the last thing in the universe you would want to taste. It will make you hate music. It will deaden your soul to opera, it will slaughter your destiny, it will send you back to Jakku. It will make you _want_ to go back to Jakku. It will have you kneeling in the burning sand and repeating prayers for the rest of your miserable life until your body turns to dust. Because it will make you believe you deserve that.

Galli tries to force sound out of his throat. He has the answer, so he must speak.

Palpatine laughs. “I can sense your fear. Vivid, isn’t it? How it brings clarity to the mind?”

“Yes, sir,” Galli nods.

“Then what do you think is in the goblet?”

Dry-mouthed, Galli parts his lips. “Guilt,” he whispers. “It makes you feel ashamed.”

The Emperor pauses, and begins to cackle. “Oh, you ridiculous boy. I _commend_ your effort. But it is a trite answer. Clever for the sake of cleverness.”

Galli feels — ashamed. Terribly so. He feels angry, too, because he thinks Palpatine might be wrong. There is nothing worse than shame, nothing more nauseating.

“It is _subservience_ ,” Palpatine continues sharply. “But of the most appalling kind. You see, Galli, as you sit shivering in your chair, you are afraid of me because you know I can kill you. And that is right, for you to fear. And to feel yourself strengthened by that fear, until you have mastered control over your mind, your body, every facet of your being, all in the service of staying _alive_. But this draught offers a kind of subservience that robs you of dignity. You will be a slavering, slobbering servant to everyone you meet. Anything they ask, you will do. And it will please you so utterly. Their whims are your whims, their pains are your pains. You will be consumed, torn apart from all sides, quite literally dissolving into the cosmos with a blissful, idiotic grin on your face.”

Again anger blazes in the back of Galli’s mind. _But that’s what I meant!_ He can’t possibly speak this aloud. The most condemning thing of all might be that it is true, but for him to know this, he had to have allowed himself a spare moment of weakness. A moment to despise himself for everything he has done. In a sense, he has already tasted the potion, and learned how potent it could be. The man sitting in front of him surely knows nothing of guilt. And this is why his wizardry is powerful enough to pinch Galli’s life out of existence.

Palpatine taps a fingernail against the goblet. “And like all poisons, it is a popular drug among the vulgar crowds. Metaphorically, of course. But it is so cunningly conceived in its liquid form. A masterful creation.”

“May I hold it?” Galli asks. “The cup?”

Confusion, or intrigue, flashes in the Emperor’s features. “Of course not.” He grasps the goblet by its stem. “I know what you’re thinking. I know… that it _tempts_ you.”

Galli has not yet admitted that to himself. But it’s true. An unconscious part of his mind has been scheming. It thinks this promised idiot’s death will be better than life. And Galli recoils from the realization, revolted. He has _never_ wished to die — except that he has, again and again, made such peace with the notion — but this is _not who he is_.

Or perhaps it is who Galli is. But that boy is a pathetic creature. The _man_ he will become will be hewn with keener tools. Cutting away and discarding every scab and callus and cancerous lump on his soul that grew from festering under the Jakku sun.

Palpatine lifts the goblet to his lips and downs the draught in one gulp.

Galli is not shocked. His mind rearranges itself in a flash. He knows Palpatine would never do this. So it did not happen, or it was not what it seemed. It was a test. The test-giver cannot be wrong.

Seconds later, a low hissing sound starts up. Like a sand-snake slithering out of its den. Galli’s eyes do widen, when Palpatine bares his teeth in a grin, and black steam pours out from between them. It rises and curls around the man’s pale, wrinkled face.

“To answer your — insolent, unspoken — question. No. Of the two, I am still the more terrifying. You see how even it fears _me_.”

Dizzy with mortification, Galli nods.

Palaptine flicks two fingers at him, as if brushing Galli out of the room as he would a speck of dust from his cloak. “Now begone, boy. I hope you’ve learned something of value here.”


End file.
